


Too Late.

by sherlynotlocked



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Johnlock - Freeform, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-29
Updated: 2015-08-29
Packaged: 2018-04-16 23:41:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4644426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sherlynotlocked/pseuds/sherlynotlocked
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Sherlock's death, all hell breaks loose in John's life. His love for Sherlock is smashed leaving him back to old eating habits, a psychosomatic limp, and worst of all, depression. If it couldn't get any worse, he is stuck in a lonely depressed state and finally accepts that Sherlock is gone when one day, he comes back.</p><p>Copy Right to BBC's characters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Too Late.

Copy Rights to the maker of the cover, to BBC and their characters, and script pieces

IMPORTANT

Author Note: 

I will be editing these chapters after I post them. It depends on how long the chapter is and how much time it took to write to get it fully done. Sometimes, the shorter ones I'll just post, already edited. (which hopefully there will be none)

I will be writing comments in Sherlock's/John's head (when in their own POVS) Here is some code to understand what means what. In case you forget, this will be at the end of every chapter.

Also in case you didn't know, POV means Point of View, as in who's perspective the chapter is in, and I will start the chapter with it. You will see below when the chapter starts.

'''EXAMPLE''' = in Sherlock's mind palace. Like someone saying something (only in Sherlock's POV)

*EXAMPLE*= an action done or made in Sherlock's mind palace (only in Sherlock's POV)

'EXAMPLE'= just a thought to themselves. (in all POVS)

("EXAMPLE")= something that happened/was said in the past (in all POVS)

"EXAMPLE."= normal dialogue silly (in all POVS)

If I add anymore I will add this at the beginning of the chapter to make sure you see.

Sorry for this, please forgive me. I do not want to waste your time, but that was important. Sorry again really.. wait if I'm wasting your time why are you reading this, I mean the chapter starts down there....

I'm kidding. Thanks for choosing to read this :)

Sherlock's POV

It's cold. Every atom in my body yearned to run down all the way down there, and out the front doors of St. Bart's Hospital. There's no way that will happen, at least until I stop caring if John lives.

'''This is what caring does to you, brother dear.'''

Mycroft reminds me.

I blink, acknowledging the tears pooling in my eyes. The only way out, is from here. Here is up on the top of St. Bart's Hospital, right on the edge of the building. I look down to the ground, holding my breath.

'John is going to hate me.'

I take in a deep breath.

'John will never talk to me again.'

Another deep breath

'This is it.'

"Caring? Oh please brother dear," I mumble to myself. Closing my eyes, I search for a place to leave my 'care' in, or delete, "Oh.." I clear my throat, not finding anyway to make so possible, "I'll be just fine."

Glancing back at Moriarty's body, I sigh. This past year with John, and all it's memories. Everything is about to be thrown away. Waking up with the pulsing ache to get out, solve a case with John outside. My hunger to impress him, usually ending with me being rude and a cock. Oh well, he secretly likes it as embarrassing for him it is. 

'I will see him again someday.'

My throat tightens as I reach for my phone. I call John just as his taxi pulls up and he gets out.

John's POV

I walk onto the streets, not quite sure what was going on. My phone is to my ear, and Sherlock on the line he sounds nervous, scared and unhappy. All things unusual for him. He's telling me to stay put, but I want to go in and talk to him face to face. The horror consumes me as I see him up there, on the top of St. Bart's Hospital.

"Keep your eyes fixed on me," Sherlock's voice is distraught, "Please, will you do this for me?"

"Do what?" I ask, still very frightened.

"This phone call - it's, er ... it's my note. It's what people do, don't they - leave a note?"

'No, it can't be.'

Shaking my head, I remove the phone from my ear. 

'Sherlock, no.'

"Leave a note when?" I ask, not caring to control the fear in my shaking voice.

"Goodbye, John." Sherlock says, and my chest drops.

And so does he.

 

A week and a half later

 

'It's today'

I sigh, waiting for this day was hell and it's going to be hell. The flat is empty, and lifeless. Besides Mrs. Hudson coming around with tea and biscuits, it's very empty. Memories in every room and heart ache in every memory, and every bit of myself yearns to get out of here, but I can't find the energy to even get out of bed. So I lay here, staring at the ceiling thinking about all the things I should have done.

'No. Friends protect people.'

The last words I said to Sherlock face to face, in the same room. No, when we were both still alive in the same room. These thoughts are ruining me, well technically Sherlock does this. Did this. 

'Fuck'

"John? Dear, it's time." Mrs. Hudson knocked on my bedroom door, "I brought some tea and biscuits." I can hear the effort and sadness in her voice, she only wants to help me. I don't want help. I just want Sherlock.

"Come in," my voice cracks.

The door opens and Mrs. Hudson comes in, placing the tray on my night stand. She switches the lamp on, revealing my messy room. Rubbing my eyes I sit up, letting the covers falling off me showing my white t-shirt. Immediately regretting it, I pull the sheets back up to bring the warmth. 

"Eat something, please. He would want you to." I glance up at her. Not thinking it was possible, her glance softened once she saw my red eyes that were raw from crying, "Oh John, you need to get out of bed sometime soon, the funeral is today."

"I know," I stretch, my muscles that are very tired and tight, "I-I just don't feel like getting up."

"And that's understandable, but he wouldn't want this. He wouldn't like this," Mrs. Hudson says as she sits on the end of my bed, "And it's okay, but you should go." 

"I know," I sigh.

"I'll be waiting, so be ready within the next hour," she got up, and left the room. Usually she makes me a cup of tea, today I see why not.

It's cold. My room, is very plain. When I first moved here I hardly had anything. I never took the time to make my room look nice because Sherlock and I would be out solving cases, and almost always on the run. He loved doing that, and it was very obvious. That was one of the things that I hated, but loved about him. The cases that dragged on for days, most of the them making us miss sleep and meals. He always is passionate with his work, and some may say obsessed but he is bored after all. Well, he was.

Slowly sitting up more in bed, I pour myself some tea and grab a biscuit. The tea is slightly cold, and the biscuits slightly warm. I don't mind to add anything to my tea, enjoying the bitter taste. 

'Black, two sugars please'

I look at the tray, and there is sugar. Even if I was to add anything, which I don't feel like doing at the moment, I wouldn't take sugar. Mrs. Hudson knows that. I pick up the sugar and put two in. I quickly stir it, making sure I get rid of most of the sugar. Hesitantly bringing the cup to my lips, I drink it and at first I cringe. Tea with sugar isn't my favorite, but yet somehow I manage to make myself chug the tea. An ordinary person would drink their tea, get in the shower and get dressed, but I'm not a ordinary person. Tea was something that soothed me now, the reminder that I still had something nice in my life brought me warmth. Of course I had my family, but Harry is no use and not being close with your parents doesn't help very much.

My childhood was adventurous. Some how I always managed to get myself in trouble at home. Whether it was not taking my rain boots off after a long day by the pond, or staying out late in the city messing around with my friends, I constantly got in trouble. The only days I wouldn't is when I went to school and was forced to come home straight after, that was of course when I got in trouble the previous day. My childhood was wild and happy. That part of my life never changed over the years, I joined the army. That may have not been wild and happy, but it was crazy out there. Sherlock was wild.. and he made me happy, whether I'd like to admit or not back when he was.. here.

Just the way he carried himself astounded me. Like how he didn't care much for the solar system, and how he could tell something just from the smallest things. My biggest fantasy of him was to see into his mind, like read it. I wanted to see more of him, and all the different aspects of him. He might not have shown it, but he did care. There was emotion. Somehow he could cover it up. I feel sometimes that I was the only one who got to see that. It's all the little things about Sherlock that I love. 

'That was ridiculous. That was the most ridiculous thing I've ever done,' my voice plays in my head

'And you invaded Afghanistan,' then Sherlock's voice.

'That wasn't just me,' again me. 

"Shut up!" I mumble and lightly smack the prints of my fingers to my forehead and my palm to my nose.

I stand up, and shake my head in hopes it will clear my mind of Sherlock, but to no avail he is still on my mind. I decide to wear something casual, I know I should wear something nice but this was Sherlock. He hated religion and since there was no will, Greg and I decided there would be a priest by the grave, but only a few words should be said to help rest his soul. Only Sherlock's few friends, and his family are supposed to come so I have no worries about appearance, although I know I should. 

Gradually, I move to my dresser and pull out my finest jeans and my nicest jumper from the closet. For a few minutes I sit in front of my dresser, rethinking my choice in clothing. 

"Sherlock never favored any of my jumpers. It doesn't matter," But it did, so I picked the beige jumper I wore on the first day I officially met him. Before getting into the shower I get up and lay out the clothing on my bed and sigh, "This shouldn't be happening," I rub my neck.

Finally I get in the shower and relax. The water is at almost full heat making my skin turn red in the places it hits and it stings. I know it's probably not smart to, but I turn up the heat too full. Everything burns, but it's nice. My mind shifts from the upcoming events to the burning sensation. I rub my eyes, tired and unhappy. My hands stay on my face, cover my eyes. Soon enough one minute turns into five, and so on. I just stand there, face in hands.

"Where did I go wrong? I lost a friend..." I sob. Every cry makes my stomach and chest ache. My whole body aches. My hand reaches for the shower handle to turn down the water, accidently missing and touching the hot water spout, "Fuck!" I flinch, "God."

I quickly end my shower, trying my hardest to stop crying and get dressed. I get as far as my jeans and undershirt before breaking down again. This is too hard, and if putting clothes on is like this I can only imagine the drive there. Wonderful mental images enter my mind, resulting in me crying more.

It's incredibly painful, how this day is dragging on. And it's only noon. I make no effort to sit on the bed, I just curl up on the floor like a baby and sob. The tears are never ending, at this point I'm crying because it makes me feel much better.

'Sherlock is my best friend, and he's dead. No more staying out late solving cases, no more watching him be rude to others. No more Sherlock.'

The reminder of him stings, and it consumes me. Every thought is him. Everything is him.

Having enough of the pain, I force myself up to my feel and down to Sherlock's room.

'What a great way to get him off my mind.'

I walk straight to his dresser. My hand stops on the dresser handle, and my other covers my face. More sobs slip out and I grip the handle so hard, the burn begins to ache. I have no control, and no strength to pull myself together and just walk back upstairs and get my shoes on, so I open the dresser and grab Sherlock's purple shirt and hold it. It's much larger than any of my shirts, and I know I could never fit into it, so I pull it up to my nose. Guiltily, I inhale it's scent. It smells just like him, the soft gingery musty smell. I never knew why he smelt like ginger, I always thought it was his body wash or deodorant. Still holding onto the shirt I sit on his bed. It's not the softest bed and it's not the hardest. I don't understand how he slept on this...

His bed is usually neatly made and for some reason it isn't now. The blankets aren't neatly layered, the blanket on top is wrinkled and his pillow is indented. The bed is only just long enough to fit his long body. I can see him curled up and sleeping. It was a rare thing, but it was the only time he was really quiet. I never watched him sleep but on the days our cases would drag on, he would nod off on the couch for a few but then jolt right back. His light snoring would fill the room and I would simply observe.

His figure would relax, not as tense and uptight as usual. Those eyes locked up behind his eyelids and lips would open every so slightly so he could breath. Those lips. The room would fall silent, all except for the little snores and light breathing. I hate saying it, but it was cute. The way he would inhale deeply once in a while making his body jump just a little. Then after a few minutes of enjoying that, every time, he would jolt right back awake, which always scared me and I would of course have to divert my attention.

Warmth filled my chest leaving a small smile upon my lips for a moment before another tear fell from my eye.

"I'm so sorry, Sherlock. I don't believe you. Every deduction, every smart and rude comment. They are all real. Every last word," I whispered to him, as if he were here, "You said it was a magic trick. I know it is real."

 

John's memory of the conversation

 

("What's going on?" I asked anxiously.)

("An apology. It's all true," Sherlock said.)

("Wh-what?")

("Everything they said about me. I invented Moriarty," Sherlock said and quickly looked behind him.)

("Why are you saying this?" I asked)

("I'm a fake," his voice broke, and my chest along with it.)

("Sherlock ...")

("The newspapers were right all along. I want you to tell Lestrade; I want you to tell Mrs. Hudson, and Molly... in fact, tell anyone who will listen to you that I created Moriarty for my own purposes," his voice became tearful.)

("Okay, shut up, Sherlock, shut up. The first time we met ... the first time we met, you knew all about my sister, right?" I said.)

("Nobody could be that clever.")

("You could.")

(Sherlock chuckled, looking down at me, "I researched you. Before we met I discovered everything I could to impress you," he sniffled, "It's a trick. Just a magic trick.")

 

I shake my head in effort to hold back the tears, "I don't believe you," I gasped, "You're Sherlock Holmes, you are that smart," I blink away the tears and stand up. I probably shouldn't, but I put the shirt on. It's way too big so I tuck it in, and fold the sleeves. The shirt is still massive on me, and extremely loose but I walk upstairs and throw my jumper on over it, and let the collar peek out. Lastly, I take the loose sleeve and try to fold it around the hand cuffs as neatly as possible, but fail. 

Before I head out, I slip on socks, shoes, and my black jacket. Then I zip up my jacket, in hopes to hide my mismatching shirts. I look around the flat, and it's quiet. It's empty and sad, the furniture left untouched and everything still in it's place. Right after everything was sorted, the funeral, the police reports, and everything else, I stormed in here and crashed. Mrs. Hudson had come home with me, and left me alone for a few days before coming up in attempts to make me eat. She would tell me to get up, shower, and go on a walk. She said to get some fresh air, it'll be good for you. I thanked her but went back to sleep and ignored the world. 

Greg had stopped by once a few days ago. He brought soup to warm up, and he did. And unlike Mrs. Hudson, he forced me to eat and waited in my room until I showered. The only thing I wouldn't do was go on a walk, but he left me alone after that point. Occasionally my phone would ping, having received a text from him, asking if I had done all those things again. Most of the time I didn't reply and simply went back to bed, but other times I reassured him just to make sure he didn't feel the need to come over again and it worked.

I head downstairs and knock on Mrs. Hudson's door. She opened the door a moment later, wearing a nice dark blue dress.

"Oh John," Mrs. Hudson says and touches my shoulder, "I'm sorry dear."

I only nod my head and look down trying to hide my on coming tears.

"Let's just get this over with," I say, almost mumbling. Mrs. Hudson nods and grabs her purse.

We quickly leave and catch a cab. The drive is quiet, Mrs. Hudson keeps her attention fixated towards the outside world. I probably should too, but I played with my jacket sleeve. It's becoming a bit worn from all the rain. It's a really nice jacket. I've had it for quite a while, the cuffs starting to fade a bit and the inside becoming thinner and not as soft. 

A muffled ping comes from my pocket. I continue to play with my jacket, and Mrs. Hudson looks at me after a moment. I sigh and grab the phone from my pocket. 

A text from Greg Lestrade, my lock screen reads.

I sigh. What was I hoping for?

"Is everything alright dear?" Mrs. Hudson asks. I look up to her and nod. She inspects me for a moment before turning back to her window.

I unlock my phone and read the text,

Figured I'd wait till you got here, but just wanted to know how you are doing. -Greg

I type my reply,

I'm doing just fine, I'll see you soon.

The ride is a little long, but I manage to dose off after shutting my thoughts off with great effort. Once we get there and out the car, Mrs. Hudson puts her hand on my back, and escorts me into the building. There's not many people here, but we did arrive a bit early. Greg is in the corner talking to Molly and Mycroft. I'm partially surprised that Mycroft is here. Obviously it's his brothers funeral but I've never seen him subject to feelings or sentiment. I don't think anyone has.

Greg sees Mrs. Hudson and I and smiles. He says something to Molly and Mycroft before hurrying over. Before any words are said, he gives Mrs. Hudson and I each a quick hug.

"Since there isn't going to be a ceremony, we can say our word here and then we will bury him," Greg says sadly. It was agreed to keep the casket since his face wasn't in good shape. 

"Right. Okay," my voice is weak, "I'll just be-"

"I know, it's alright," Greg interrupts, nodding his head.

I silently thank him, beginning to walk to the front of the room. It's a very plain building, the walls just a nice pale orange, with wood lining along the middle and tiny pink ish orange flowers below that. Windows are spaced evenly around the room, allowing lots of light to enter the room, adding a lighter and happier feeling to it. As if a funeral was happy. The ceiling wasn't fancy, no special chandelier or high rise. It was a bit high and painted white and it reflected the light. The floor was the kind of carpet you would find in a school or church, the dark navy blue with nothing exciting to it. There's a lot of white chairs and they were lined up neatly with a large space in the middle for walking up to the front. The front had a small stage and podium with a huge cross above its. And right in front of the stage was a casket. 

I stared at it, not quite sure how to approach. I'd been to funerals before. Not that I'm happy to say it though. Most of the time people would be sitting and listening to a priest speaking and letting others go up and speak. It was different this time. Everyone was chatting. Greg and Mrs. Hudson had joined Molly, who was left by Mycroft. Mycroft had left and gone who knows where. I thought Mike Stanford would come, being the one who introduced Sherlock and I. It would be nice to have his support. 

The only people who I didn't see and was most surprised not to, was his parents. 

'Where in the hell are they?'

I take a deep breath. 

'It's a same, they should be here.'

I manage to shake the thought and conquer the next. Walking up to the casket.

I catch Molly looking at me in the corner of my eye, and sympathy is written all over it. She looked away quickly, now looking guilty.

My feet take charge and I work my way towards the casket. My chest begins to ache and my body becomes stiff once I finally get there.

"Oh Sherlock. This..This shouldn't be happening," I begin to sob, "Your supposed to still be here. With me."

I bring my hands into the sleeves of my jacket, under my jumper, and right under Sherlock's shirt. I tightly grip the fabric and fold my arms.

"Oh god Sherlock..why," my head ducks and shakes. My eyes can't stay open, not able to look at the casket, "There's hardly anybody here. It's making this more sad, plus I think I may be the only one crying at the moment. That's embarrassing," I chuckle, then look at the casket. 

I reach my hand out and touch the wood with my finger tips still keeping my hand mostly under the sleeve. The casket is dark and wooden with a gold lining around it. It's pretty in a simple way, and I didn't choose it. I don't know who did, but it must have been Mycroft.

"Don't waste your tears too much, he wasn't the nicest of them after all," I turn around and see Mycroft and scowl.

"Neither are you," his expression doesn't change, still just plain and slightly sad.

"Oh I know," he adds a smile, "Time to burry him," now he's not smiling.

"Oh. I thought more people were coming," I glance around.

"No, I'm afraid not. This is it. And it's time."

I nod and take a seat in attempt to make him go away. Of course he doesn't and he joins me. He doesn't speak, but it's obvious he wants to say something so I speak for him.

"Well then let's get started."

The casket is carried outside to where he is going to buried, and the hole is already dug. It's a nice day for once. The sun is out making the cemetery look nice, but it's not much warmer out though. I keep getting the urge to curl up in a ball since there is some strong wind. As soon as the casket is lowered into the hole it all really hit me. This is really it. He's really gone.

The priest comes outside and begins speaking. Molly only stares at her shoes, clearly not paying attention and Mycroft is nowhere to be seen again. Greg and Mrs. Hudson stay near me, but give me space. 

I just want Sherlock to pop out of that bush, and laugh. I want him to laugh at us all for believing he is actually dead. He would tell us what we missed, that there was a little detail that gave it all away. Just one little detail that blew it all. I wouldn't even care if he laughed, I'd just be so happy he would be here. That's all I want. I want this all to stop. I want him to be alive and next to me. If he were to come out, I would say all the things I never said.

'Oh all the things I never said.'

"John, would you like to say something?" the priests speech had ended, and he called on me.

I looked around. Molly was still looking at the ground, and Mycroft still not here. Mrs. Hudson and Greg glance at me and smile. 

I shake my head, "No," I whisper, "No I can't. I'm sorry," I raise my voice.

The priest nods his head and asks Greg, and he accepts. Greg did know Sherlock longer than me, and had loads more memories.

He cleared his throat, "Sherlock Holmes. In a way he was a great man. He was a pain in the ass," I slightly chuckled, "But he solved many crimes and caught many dangerous people, and probably saved many people. There were many times I thought he wasn't human by the way he could just read you or be such an ass. But in the end I guess he was just as human as the rest of us," Greg's voice cracked, and a single tear slid down his face, "Goodbye Sherlock Holmes."

Greg's speech wasn't as detailed as I'd thought it would be, but it still had me trying to hold back tears. The priest asked if anyone else would like to say anything, and nobody stepped up. I was almost shocked Mrs. Hudson didn't say anything, and Molly had barely moved. So the priest said some last words and wrapped it up before the hole was covered up. I sit down at a near by bench instead of staying by the grave to watch him get buried.

'This is really it.'

No more watching Sherlock dose off, or be an ass. The world's only consulting detective is gone. Greg is good at his job, but Sherlock always helped the most and I think Greg and I are both going to miss it. There sure isn't any crime in heaven for him to solve.

I keep forgetting that I'm crying, it's like I've gotten used to it. There's no need for me to think about it since it's already happening. I get that I'm a grown man blah blah blah suck it up and that crap. But it's Sherlock. There's really no else like him. His beautiful brain and personality. Now his personality was definitely an unique one, but it's what made him so amazing.

Someone could study how to lie perfectly for ages, but he had it down in seconds. He was just so, intelligent. 

'Brainy was the new sexy,' I smirked.

Although I knew Irene's fling with Sherlock was never real, at least for Sherlock, I always felt jealous. She was open about it, she could flirt with Sherlock whenever she wanted to. I don't know why it bugged me so much though. Anybody could do that, I could have done that, but I think I secretly knew he would shut me down. And it never really was a problem to me then, but now it is. All the things I could have said.

My mind fell mostly silent as I watched them finish burying Sherlock and everyone began to gather around the grave. Molly suddenly had flowers, and Mycroft was back. Honestly what the hell is Mycroft doing? Mrs. Hudson and Greg are with them, placing things down onto the grave. I walk over and join them.

"Well that's it then," Greg says, sulking.

No one says a word and walks away, except for Mrs. Hudson.

"I'll let you have a minute. I'll be waiting with the others," Mrs. Hudson says and rubs my arm. I nod and turn towards the grave. The grave marker is a shiny black with gold letters saying Sherlock Holmes on it. Just like the casket, its pretty in a plain way. There's a large tree hanging over the grave, blocking the sun. It's a nice grave yard too with the forest surrounding it.

'This is it. Time to say goodbye.'

I think for a few minutes and just stare at it. I'm still not quite sure what I want to say, but just standing here is hard as it is. It seems like decades before I actually speak and right as I do, I hear the bushes begin to rustle. I glance behind me, but the wind has picked up again and obviously I blame it on that.

"Sherlock, you can't be dead. I mean this can't be real. There's so much I wanted to say and so much more that I wanted to do and.. this... this shouldn't be happening. You should be with me at 221B Baker Street," tears are rolling down my cheeks, "You saved me. You really did," I take a deep breath as it begins to get harder to say this, "My limp was gone because of you and I-I was actually eating. Everything was better. Everything was good. I miss it. I miss you Sherlock, and I need you. I know everything was real too, because you could be that smart. No body can convince me you told me a lie," I begin to walk away believing that was it.

'No, I know what else.'

I turn back around and face the grave again, "No that's not it. Sherlock I really need you so just... just stop this. One more miracle for me Sherlock," I pause trying to catch my breath in attempt to stop some of the tears, "Don't be dead. Because Sherlock Holmes, I.. I know and I-" I shake my head realizing how stupid this was about to sound, "Yes it's stupid and sentimental, all things you aren't and don't like, but.. I love you Sherlock and I need you. There, I said it," and I walked away.

Mrs. Hudson was waiting for me where she said she was going to be, and we catch a cab home. The ride isn't any better than the one there. Again I stare out the window just like Mrs. Hudson does and neither of us utter a word. My thoughts string through multiple things like, what now? Should I move? Find a job?

But it's only been a little longer than a week so I have time.. right? 

We arrive at home, and I stand outside for a moment. Usually I would come home to Sherlock, probably sitting around saying he's bored or frantically solving a case. Today I get neither, for the rest of my life I get none of it. Suddenly the whole building seems sadder and more lifeless. And the next thing I know, so does everything.

I walk into the flat, trying to shake the feeling. But this door is the one we ran out of on lots of cases, and these rooms hold all the memories of the late nights wasted solving them. I slowly walk up the stairs, holding onto the walls. Everything feels unsteady, and this home doesn't feel like home anymore. The walls are just boxing me inside these lonely walls and closing the world off. There's no world left for me. This is it. That was it, my last chance at happiness and I wasted it. There was so much I should have done. So many things to say.

I break apart, and crash in my room. I don't even care to stop in the living room and leave my shoes or leave my jacket. I just lay there on my bed sobbing. There's so much coming and I can see it now. My happiness was all spent up because I found love where it wasn't supposed to be. Right in front of me. And now there is nothing.

Sherlock's POV

"You're killing him you know. I mean look at him, he needs you. If I'm allowed to know you're alive then he should too," Molly told me sternly. I looked down to my feet because I couldn't bring myself to look at him. 

"I know, but it's what's best for now," I say keeping my tone the same.

Molly had snuck over as soon as everyone left the grave, and I was hiding in the woods near by. Guilt struck upon me just as she left, leaving me to hear John's 'last' words to me. I force myself to walk to a near by tree to get closer, and to my luck I trip and fall behind a bush. John quickly looks back towards me, but shows no suspicion before turning back toward the grave. I take a deep breath and stand back up.

John is silent for a moment, clearly in deep thought. His eyebrows are drawn close in confusion and his eyes very puffy. Molly was right, he does look horrible. Dark circles are under his eyes and he looks pale, but not tired. He's been skipping lots of meals, my chest sinks more, and he's been over sleeping. The crying adds more color to his face plus the nippy wind on his face. Although it's sunny, the weather here is never so kind. His weight seems to have grown, but he hasn't been eating. Layers of clothing, and I look closely at his jacket and see something purple. The tag on the back is sticking out and I can tell it isn't his shirt. It's mine.

My throat tightens, not enjoying that. Then John begins to speak.

"Sherlock, you can't be dead. I mean this can't be real. There's so much I wanted to say and so much more that I wanted to do and.. this... this shouldn't be happening. You should be with me at 221B Baker Street," tears are visible on his face, "You saved me. You really did," John takes a deep breath and I bit my lip, "My limp was gone because of you and I-I was actually eating. Everything was better. Everything was good. I miss it. I miss you Sherlock, and I need you. I know everything was real too, because you could be that smart. No body can convince me you told me a lie," he begins to walk away, and it clear there's more on his mind. He isn't done yet.

Instead of walking back he just turns back around and continues, "No that's not it," knew it, "Sherlock I really need you so just... just stop this. One more miracle for me Sherlock," John stops for a moment, "Don't be dead. Because Sherlock Holmes, I.. I know and I-" he shakes his head. He's about to admit something, "Yes it's stupid and sentimental, all things you aren't and don't like, but.. I love you Sherlock and I need you. There, I said it," he says and walks away.

I stand there shocked, not believing what I'd just heard. Tears begin to pool in my eyes and everything freezes.

'No, he didn't.'

I blink, clearing the tears out of my eyes.

'He did.'


End file.
